


Remember

by Skylark



Series: HSWC 2014 [12]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Courtship, F/M, First Dates, Missing Scene, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 19:23:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3393365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's what you've always done, both of you—you make do.</p><p><a href="http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/18819.html?thread=3509635#cmt3509635">Prompt:</a> <em>"Remember when Mom and Dad had their first (and final) date?"</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember

When you arrived at the top of the stairs she was already waiting for you, leaning against the balcony with a graceful sprawl that would put golden film era debutantes to shame. You tipped your hat and she pushed herself upright, sauntering towards you and meeting you halfway.

“It's good to see you again,” you said, leaning in to press a kiss to the back of her hand. Her other hand moved to cover a ladylike giggle. “Please, have a seat.”

“You always know how to make a woman feel special,” she drawled as you pulled out her chair.

“Ah, but you're not just any woman," you reply.

If there's anyone who understands the meaning of the phrase “whistling in the dark,” it's the four of you, who watched your charges grow and taught them everything you could to survive what you knew was coming. Even now, you're laying out the heavy silver forks and knives beside the bone-white china plates, opening the rich bottle of wine, as if all the time in the world is yours.

“Thank you,” she says as you hand her a glass.

“You're as beautiful as the first time I saw you,” you tell her. You mean it; she knows that, and smiles at you. “I don't believe you've aged a day.”

“The first time we met was at Jane's funeral,” she says. It's always been odd to you that a woman your age was on first-name terms with your mother, but then again, your mother lived an unusual life. “Looks like we pick bad times to meet.”

You shake your head. “It's fortuitous,” you say. “We meet at times of great importance.”

She laughs, and you remember that gloomy day in April when your mother was laid in the ground. Your new child had cried ceaselessly in your arms until a woman—then a stranger to you, now your charming dinner companion—laid a hand on his head and cooed at him, and he calmed at once. You'd wanted to invite her out for a drink then, but refrained out of concern for your new young charge. There was too much to do, you thought at the time, to be entertaining thoughts of romance.

“There's still so much to do,” your lady friend says, echoing your thoughts. She leans forward and you can smell her perfume, subtle and intriguing. The landscape behind her is an ocean of black and white squares, and the sky is a blue so piercing it seems surreal. It's not quite the romantic ambiance you'd hoped for; you wish you had a record player and your old Bing Crosby records. But her posture's relaxed, and she sips at the wine as if nothing is out of place. You play along, offering her the bread basket with your usual solemnity, because that's what you've always done, both of you—you make do.

The fourth time you fill her glass, your hand is shaking slightly and wine spills over the side. You color with embarrassment. “Forgive me,” you say, reaching for your napkin. She stops you by placing her hand over yours, gently pressing it to the table.

Then she lifts her glass, even as drips of blood red wine drip onto the white linen tablecloth. “I'd like to propose a toast,” she says. “To the future.”

You nod, picking up your glass to chime it against hers. “To the future,” you return.

In a short time, your children will arrive, and before them, a monster with powers beyond your imagination. The two of you hadn't planned to meet here, but you were not surprised to find her waiting for you on the balcony. If anyone, man or monster, meant to harm your son, they'd have to go through you first; and without discussion, you knew that she was here for the same reason.

She sees it first, with her sniper's eye for movement. You follow her gaze and see a black spot in the distance that grows larger at great speed.

“It seems we have a guest,” you say. “Shall we reschedule this for another time?”

Her smile is beautiful, her lips stained with red, her scarf fluttering in the rising wind as she gets to her feet. You take your time to commit how beautiful she is in this moment to your memory.

In the next moment, her rifle is in her hands, and you're pulling a safe from your sylladex. The moment passes—eventually, they all do. Love is one of the only things that remains eternal.

“Yes, let's,” she says.


End file.
